


Not My Father's Son

by fantastic_rambles



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Introspection, Minor Character Death, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28773189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantastic_rambles/pseuds/fantastic_rambles
Summary: Theodore muses on his first encounter with Death, and how he will never be the son that his father wishes for.
Kudos: 1





	Not My Father's Son

I don't think I'll ever be the son my father wants me to be.

Then again, I don't think I want to.

Don't get me wrong. I would be lying if I said that I didn't feel some affection for the man, and I do appreciate everything he's done for me. It couldn't have been easy as a single father, raising a baby immediately after the death of his beloved wife, unable to mourn properly without some brat squalling because he was hungry or had wet nappies. Even though, like any proper pureblood, he hired a governess and a parade of tutors to raise me into a young gentleman, he still took an active interest in my life. Maybe it was out of some sort of misplaced sense of responsibility to his deceased spouse, or maybe he actually did think of me as more than just an heir to pass on the fortune and carry on the name. Whatever the reason, I am a rarity among my peers: a boy to whom "father" is more than an abstract idea. He is not just a distant figure I am expected to respect, or a Gringotts account with no spending limits. He is the man who ate with me every night and was sincere in his praise of my academic prowess.

But do I respect him, as a fellow human? I'd have to say no, a sentiment that has only grown over the last few years. Like Draco, I've never been disillusioned about my father's beliefs. Both he and Lucius escaped Azkaban by claiming they acted under You-Know-Who's enchantment during the war, but there has never been any doubt among those who truly know them that they were acting of their own free will. Of course, there will be those who disagree, but like my father and his associates, I do believe that having Muggleborns gallivanting around Hogwarts and encouraging marriages among such lines dilutes the strength and longevity of the wizarding community as well as exposing us to danger. However, I do not believe that such a philosophy justifies indiscriminate acts of terror. For the weak, there is power in numbers and anonymity, but in the end, the violence such groups commit is merely a facade of strength.

I'm not claiming to be strong by any means. But unlike my father, I've never seen the appeal of rampaging around in a mob and obeying the whims of a madman who controls them with equal parts fear and awe. Although our society would certainly be better if we were to exclude those who taint the purity of magic and focusing on restoring the great bloodlines, killing or imprisoning all those already here is both impractical and impossible... though that certainly hasn't stopped the Death Eaters from trying.

"Junior Death Eaters." That's what the more rebellious students whisper behind our backs, assuming that all of Slytherin is some sort of monolith ready to step into murder and mayhem the instant we graduate. In their eyes, we aren't humans with our own dreams and ideas; it doesn't matter that the majority of our house actually has no affiliations to You-Know-Who, or that some of those who do have come to regret their association. The only one of us who actually bears the Mark has become a mere shadow of his former, arrogant self, terrified of the very man he calls Master.

As for me? Of course I fear You-Know-Who, but watching Draco has only further convinced me there is no future by his side. His followers live under the same spectre of death as his enemies, perhaps more so since they stand so closely by him. His enemies can hide, but when the master summons, his servants obey, even if they know he is angered by their failure or intent on making an example out of one of them. But after facing Death and staring into His face, I cannot bring myself to send others to his cold, lonely embrace.

I was eight when it happened: an unexpected, sudden fever. I only managed to struggle through half of my lessons before collapsing, an occurrence that immediately brought my governess rushing to my side. When my father returned for the evening, he joined her by my bedside, where I was apparently starting to slide into delirium. The healers who came were thwarted at every turn by my condition, their spells and potions doing nothing to alleviate my discomfort. As days of unsuccessful efforts passed and I stepped ever closer to the void, the healers eventually proclaimed me incurable, the victim of some affliction they could not identify, and left one by one. I don't know whether my father thought of it himself, or if something one of them said gave him the idea, but eventually, his suspicions must have turned to curses.

When I finally surfaced from the dark, cloying dreams into the world of awareness again, the first thing I saw was my governess, her appearance far more thin and aged than I remembered. Her face, once shining with health and graced with a serene smile, looked as though she had experienced a lifetime of painful suffering. But when she saw me open my eyes, when she heard me call out to her, she smiled, laying a hot, sweaty hand on mine. The strange, alien touch made me shiver, but I couldn't draw my hand away as she whispered, "I am glad you are well again, Theodore. I wish you a long, happy, and healthy life."

I watched as the smile relaxed and the grip on my hand slackened, staring into her eyes as the light left them. I carved into my mind every detail of the final moments of the woman who had taken my burden in my place, sacrificing her life for mine. The way the fading rays of the sun turned the new, pale streaks in her hair into brilliant silver. The feel of bone under paper-thin skin, the little flesh remaining gradually turning cooler. The sudden, unnatural silence in which all I could hear was my own breathing and the quiet rasp of skin on skin as I finally withdrew my hand from hers.

I was no stranger to Death. He had been midwife at my birth and a constant presence in my life in my father's stories. However, that was the first time I had seen Him with my own eyes, felt the agonizing emptiness of having something invaluable stolen away. For the first time, I could understand the desire to take vengeance on the world, to give up my own sovereignty to another, to sink into the numbing balm of apathy that must have so insidiously sunk its claws into my father. Even to this day, I do not know why she acquiesced to my father's request to take whatever curse had struck me into her own body--and it must have been voluntary, or the dark magic of the transference would have rebounded--but I have never forgotten her hopes for me.

My father calls such sentiment weakness, and perhaps it is. But if so, I am content with not being strong, with not being the son he wishes for.


End file.
